"And girls who want sweet drinks don't glare at strangers like they personally ruined their lives,” I finished, smirking.
Silence. The bartender placed the drink in front of her. She stared at it. Then took a sip. Then looked annoyed. I nearly laughed.
"I don’t like your smug face,” she hissed. She squinted at me. Then sighed dramatically. "But I guess you did win the bet. Kind of."
Slowly, like she was suffering immensely, she held out her hand. Victory. I stared at it for a second. Small hand. Tiny rings. Dark polished nails. Way too fucking cute.
I slid my hand into hers. And all the noise around me dulled. Music. Voices. Glasses clinking. Gone. Because her hand was warm. Soft. And for some insane reason my brain supplied a thought I absolutely did not need: I wanted her badly.
Models had held my hand before. Women had dragged me through flashing cameras and marble hotel lobbies. They'd curled manicured fingers around mine for photographers and whispered rehearsed promises into my ear on private jets thirty thousand feet above cities neither of us cared about.
I remembered their faces sometimes. Never their touch. Never this. Because somehow this felt different. Somehow this felt like standing too close to the edge of a rooftop and realizing a part of you wanted to lean forward. The realization irritated me.
Her hand sat in mine like she'd accidentally placed it there and was only just realizing the mistake. Small. Warm. Soft fingers against rough, tattooed knuckles and old scars. And then she looked down. Then slowly looked back up at me.
Big mistake. Huge fucking mistake. Because her eyes hit mine and stayed there. Christ. Those eyes. Dark and curious and stubborn as hell. The kind that looked like they had never learned how to surrender. The kind that looked like they would argue with God himself and somehow win. The kind that looked dangerous.
Not because they promised destruction. Because they promised distraction. And distraction got men killed.
Around us, the club kept moving. Bodies swayed beneath amber light. Bass rolled through the floor beneath our feet. Laughter drifted through velvet shadows and expensive perfume hung heavy in the air. I barely noticed any of it.
Because for a few seconds, all I could see was her. And she was staring back. No attitude. No eye roll. No annoyed little comments. Just staring.
One second. Two. Three. Something shifted in her expression. Tiny. Almost invisible. Curiosity. Like she was trying to figure me out. Like she was wondering who was behind the mask. Like she was wondering what I'd look like if I smiled at her for real. I wanted to know the answer too.
Then she blinked. A tiny victory. A completely meaningless victory. I was taking it anyway.
A slow grin pulled at my mouth beneath the mask. "You looked away."
Her eyes narrowed. "I absolutely did not."
"You blinked,” I reminded her.
"I have eyelashes," she informed me with incredible confidence. "They're medically necessary."
I stared at her for a second. Then barked out a laugh. Jesus Christ.
"There it is again," she accused. She pointed vaguely toward my face. "The serial killer amusement."
I put a hand over my chest. "You think very little of me."
"I think exactly enough of you, Mr. Devil,” she said.
I leaned closer. Just slightly. Enough to see the tiny pulse fluttering beneath her throat. Enough to watch her notice the distance and pretend she didn't.
“You can drop the Mister. Most people here call me Devil,” I said. “But if you’re a good girl for me, I’ll tell you my real name.”
Her eyes left mine. "You enjoy irritating me."
"No." I smiled slowly. "I enjoy watching you pretend you're irritated."
Absolute silence. She let go of my hand like she'd remembered herself. Like she'd touched something hot. I looked down at the empty space between us.
I watched her grab her drink and take an unnecessarily large sip while avoiding my eyes. And I wanted another bet. Not because I cared about winning. Because I had the strange, irrational feeling that if she walked away right now, my life would feel empty again.
Around us, After Dark moved in shadows and gold. Low amber lights spilled across black leather and velvet, catching on silver chains hanging from the ceiling like jewelry for sinners. Somewhere deeper inside the club, a laugh dissolved into music. A couple disappeared behind dark curtains with secretive smiles. Whiskey glasses clinked softly while bass rolled through the floor beneath my shoes in slow pulses.
I watched her take another sip of her drink. Way too big. Like she had developed a passionate emotional attachment to lemonade. Very fucking cute.
